


Sanctuary

by Grundy



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Luthien wasn't exactly an unwilling captive, Nargothrond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-24 23:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16185134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grundy/pseuds/Grundy
Summary: Lúthien really doesn't mind spending time with Celegorm. (Tumblr short written for Fëanorian Week '18.)





	Sanctuary

She watched him pace about the room.

Luthien wasn’t sure what had agitated him this time, for Celegorm Fëanorion was easily agitated, but he was generally as easy to soothe as to rile. His temper was the flicker of a firefly, burning bright but brief. Should he say anything foolish or careless in the grip of his temper, he would be all apologies afterwards.

She knew why he came to her, of all people in Nargothrond- and not because she is a captive. (In truth, he could not hold her here if she did not wish to stay. But she felt the time was not yet right to depart, so she does not object to remaining in the rooms he has granted her, or occasionally walking with him in the halls of her cousin’s kingdom.)

He was in love with her. And not in the puppyish way Daeron had been. She had heard the harmony of her own song in his when he first stumbled upon her in the forest.

The thought had occurred to her early on how vexing it was that they had not met sooner, that it had not been  _him_  rather than Beren who chanced to pick his way through the Girdle. Her father would not have looked on Fëanor’s third son with any greater kindness than he did a son of the Aftercomers, but things would have been a good deal simpler. 

She could have loved him. Indeed, she tried not to think too hard on that, because she’s rather worried that she still might. But she has pledged herself to Beren, and there’s nothing more to be done. Her own people would hold her faithless if she abandoned him now, mortal though he was.

She watched the muscles of his limbs flex as Celegorm prowled, still elegant even in his anger, and cast about for what might break his mood this time. She has already drawn from him much about his mother, his childhood home, and their mutual cousins. (She has been building an arsenal of anecdotes her Amanyar cousins do not yet know that she has heard of their younger days. She means to see if she can make Finrod blush and Galadriel lose her composure. Celeborn will certainly be gratified to hear that it had been no idle pleasantry when his law-brothers told him their sister had refused many in Tirion. And amused by the manner of several of those refusals…)

“What did your mother call you, Celegorm?”

It was an innocent question, but for some reason it stopped him in his tracks. His foul mood evaporated, raindrops in the wake of a summer storm.

“Why do you ask, my lady?”

He looked truly puzzled.

“Should I not?” she returned with a smile.

He sighed.

“Your father has banned the speaking of our language, and my mother did not name me in yours,” he pointed out. “Or do you defy your father in this as well?”

“What if I do?” she shrugged. “Are you not a rebel also, and against a higher power than Elu Thingol, whose authority you acknowledge only if forced to do so?”

He bowed his head, conceding the point.

Not for the first time, Luthien wondered what might have been had he and his brothers come to Ennor as Icewalkers instead of Ship-Thieves. Had their minds been clear, and their attitude not colored by disdain for others, her father would have welcomed them with open arms as the grandsons of his friend. It was not their disagreement with the Belain that bothered him, but their crimes against his brother and their people – and the dishonesty of concealing them.

“My mother called me ‘Tyelkormo’,” Celegorm said, after a silence long enough that she was beginning to think he would not answer. Not that she minded – his silence was rarely uncomfortable.

That did surprise her.

She has had enough dealings with Curufin by now to know that he goes by his father-name, and had assumed the same held true for his brothers.

“Then Celegorm is the translation of your mother name?” she asked. “ _Celeg_ is swift, but I am not sure what  _orm_  is meant to signify.”

“Riser,” he explained. “Hasty riser.”

“Because you are apt to be the first awake?” she pressed.

The tips of his ears turned a faint pink, and she knew he was trying not to let his cheeks do the same.

“No, my mother named me for my quick temper.”

Another elf might have mumbled, but Celegorm spoke clearly. She liked that he was honest, even in anger or embarrassment.

“She must have found it endearing,” Luthien mused, thinking she could see why. His temper was rarely directed at his family that she had seen, much less at her, though she could imagine he’d butted heads with his brothers as a child. “Else why would she give such a name? And why would you prefer it to your father name?”

“My father was not particularly good at naming children,” Celegorm replied with a sigh. “My father name is worse. It is the same for most of us. Curufin is the only one who prefers his father name, in either tongue.”

Seeing her lips part and the question coming, he offered the answer before she could ask.

“Turkafinwë. It means strong Finwë. When I was little I did not mind it, but as an adult, it made me feel as if brute strength was all my father saw of me.”

“But your father-”

“Oh, I know he loved me. He loved all his sons. Fiercely. But that did not mean that he understood me.”

Luthien pondered this. Her father might not  _always_  understand her, but she could not imagine saying anything similar of him. Privately, she felt it might make sense that her father did not always understand her, for she was her mother’s daughter. Sometimes Thingol did not understand his wife, even after so many years of marriage.

“Finwë is your grandfather, is he not?” Luthien frowned. “How odd to have a son share a name with one’s father.”

Celegorm shrugged.

“His father name also contains the element, as do my uncles'. I guess once Father began naming us, it was easier to just keep on. All our father-names have -finwë.”

She thought a moment, considering the names she knew for his brothers.

“Your mother at least seems to have taken some care to pick names for each of you.”

It was Celegorm’s turn to ask a question.

“What does  _your_  name mean?”

She blinked.

“Why, what do you think it means?”

“It sounds like it should mean ‘charmer’ or ‘enchantress’, but I doubt your parents knew Noldorin when they named you, so that can’t be right.”

She laughed.

“Daughter of flowers. My mother likes them. Though I find I do not mind your gloss of the name, so long as ‘enchantress’ does not mean of the evil variety.”

Celegorm’s grin was downright boyish.

“No, that would be a different word altogether. But flowers are also right for you. You wear them in your hair often enough. And often when you dance, you look like one yourself, floating around in a light breeze.”

His compliments are as artless and honest as anything else about him, and she knew perfectly well his younger brother would have groaned and covered his face to hear him talk so.

It was easy to forget, when he’s like this, that she was here for a reason, that there is some aid for Beren to be found in Finrod’s kingdom. Until she can figure out what exactly it is, she must not let herself be distracted. Even if Celegorm would be a very pleasant distraction…

No, she must not think such thoughts. The Golodhrim do not view relations as her people do; for them, there is no difference between joining and binding. Besides, it would be cruel to encourage him to imagine there could be a future for the pair of them when she’s already dedicated to Beren.

But oh, what might have been…


End file.
